


If The World Can Survive Our Maybes

by Whispering_Sumire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe, BAMF Stiles, Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancer Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale Takes Care of Stiles Stilinski, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Feral Behavior, Feral Derek Hale, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, Guilt, Happy Ending, Heartfelt Conversations, Hope, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, I hope, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing, Light Angst, Loneliness, M/M, Mates, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Mentioned Kate Argent, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Overprotective Derek, Overprotective Stiles Stilinski, Pining, Pregnancy, Scent Marking, Scenting, Sickfic, Sleepwalking, Stiles Stilinski Takes Care Of Derek Hale, Unconventional Relationship, Winter, mayyybbeeeee? i tried? lol, only a little, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 06:30:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16718127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/pseuds/Whispering_Sumire
Summary: The snow continues to fall, and Stiles thinks he finds home there, with his wolf beside him, holding him and happily, contentedly, letting him cling back.As the days pass, Kopeć's (yeah... they're still working on it, but this name's had the best run, at least) belly swells, and Stiles teaches himself everything he can. The more knowledge he's got on hand, the less wary he is, his excitement slowly, steadily rising.One day, a crisp morning, all cloudless skies and sun screaming, reflecting in a dazzling, dizzying way on the immaculate, towering snow, Stiles stretches his body out underneath Kopeć, bones cracking, muscles singing with relief, scratches his sleepy wolf under the chin and breathes, "God, I can't wait until they get here."His wolf looks up at him, a little wonderingly, and Stiles grins, wide and giddy in a way he hasn't been in years. "You're gonna be adad,"he says, breathless, enamored already, "and we're gonna have pups in the house, and they're going to destroy everything, and it's gonna beawesome."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Novkat21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novkat21/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Kat!!! I love you! I hope you enjoy this fic!! (eek, I'm sorry it's two days late)
> 
> Okay, so.... I've never written _feral_ Derek before? and I might... have failed miserably, but I honestly did try, lol;; also, btw, every character after the minor character tag is a minor character and/or don't have speaking roles, etc.
> 
> Trigger Warning :: Kind of maybe allusions to kind of maybe child abuse and/or neglect, also alcoholism? It's vague and passes extremely quickly, but, as always, be safe and careful and I love your faces, xoxoxo ❀❀❀
> 
> Content Warning :: Derek is the pregnant one, my dears, my loves, is that an issue for you? then please, please do not read, and if you _do_ , even though the summary and this cw make it obvious, please don't comment something... unkind. I love you guys, but I'm a pretty generally squishy blanket burrito, and easily damaged, ♥♥♥

Dreams crowd his vision, all slurred reality, sweeping him away.

Unheeding, unknowing, his bare feet carry him through rain-drenched loam, foliage, the flimsy-wet autumnal leaves whispering under his dazed steps as the warier, more cautious animals and insects go skittering, cowering, hiding from his invasive presence. The Preserve envelops, welcomes his body, even as his mind continues to wander within the Dreaming, not at all present here.

Behind his eyelids he sees glimpses, snatches of his mother in a peach-victorian gown, gaudy makeup, she's telling him she wears it like this so the people in the back can see. He doesn't understand it's acting at first, cries when she kisses someone other than daddy on stage, is calmed quickly and laughingly and huggingly. He weeps harder, but quieter, when she forgets her lines, her friends, the stage, him. No one laughs, anymore, no one soothes or calms or hugs. His father's face stains his mind, confused and harried and incredulous, beside himself. His mother shrieks that Mischief is killing her.

His mother tries to push him off the roof of the hospital.

His mother dies.

He thinks his father hates him.

The bottles pile up, and when Stiles is awake, he has panic attacks, too much energy. ADHD and grief, the doctors say, and give his exhausted, stressed, unhappy father pills to give him. He takes them, sometimes.

When Stiles is asleep, he walks. He's woken up with feet and legs that ache, sometimes with shattered glass and blood, sometimes with mud and soiled leaves, sometimes miles, and miles and miles away. The doctors give him more medicine, they do tests, nothing works. Stiles learns to keep his phone on his person, and, occasionally, wears shoes to bed.

It slowly, steadily gets better. Stiles cleans and cooks and does laundry and takes notes on his father's cases while the man is asleep with alcohol tainted breath; Scott, afraid, at length, for everyone and everything, because his own father (with that same whiskey coating his teeth, his tongue, begging for violence where Stiles' dad's spirits only ever seem to beg for tears) left two days before Stiles' mom died, and he's becoming terrified in spurts of Stiles' dad (residual trauma, Stiles thinks- having read his therapist's books as his therapist watched on with amused eyes, scribbling notes, telling him it was a very, very big boy book and it was okay if he didn't know how to read it yet- but doesn't say anything), even more terrified of Stiles (who wanders in the night, comes home with wretched feet and slumped shoulders and an, "I'm okay, Scotty, I'm fine," that never seems to be enough)—Scott starts sleeping curled around Stiles, an anchor, keeping him still, making him stay; Melissa starts tossing half-empty bottles, and giving chiding speeches, when she has the time; Noah stops drinking.

Comes home one night to a meal of spinach lasagna, and, when he makes a face only to be told he _must eat the heart healthy thing or face the consequences_ , cracks a smile. It's like sunshine pouring through a decrepit, damaged roof after a long, unbearable storm.

It is beautiful, and relieving, and Stiles manages to _breathe_ in the face of it.

* * *

Stiles doesn't know why he thought- with his friends away at college, and him moved into some nondescript cabin closer to the mountains and the Preserve so that he could satiate this weird craving for _earth_ he's had thrumming in his bones since he'd decided to forego college, stay in beacon hills, take care of his father, pursue other things- that he wouldn't wind up waking up in the middle of woods. His body has an intense desire to be amongst the bark and the moss and the mud-slop, sings for insects and animals and wild. He knows this, he's learned to live with it, it's been with him since the _first_ time he laid his head on his pillows, only to find himself lifting it from leaf-strewn soil the next morning. But it's been managed and, and _quiet_ for so long that he thought...

Well, he doesn't know what he thought. Perhaps impulse buying a cabin surrounded by trees and unhindered sky should've been his first clue, after his sudden yearning to be in near woodlands. He's more surprised than he should be, anyway, when his eyes flutter open to a crisp sky cluttered with dancing, rasping branches, the frosted earth seeping its' icy tendrils past flimsy sleep-clothes, tainting him with shiver-chill.

"Fuck," he groans, voice sleep-husky and aggrieved, as he strains into a stretch that clumsily stumbles toward sitting. The moment he's up, his eyes are level with a set of shocking, incandescent, not as distant as he'd like them to be, fucking _wolf's_ eyes.

The animal growls softly, ears back and teeth vaguely bared, sharp teeth a stark, gleaming white against ashen-pitch fur, obsidian, hackles raised, ink contrasting muddy browns and a pale, bitter, wintery sky. The trees seem to hold their collective breaths, and Stiles' sleep-fuzzed brain nearly short circuits.

At least, he thinks, he'll die for something beautiful. Because that's what this wolf is, and for an odd, off-kilter, entirely too dizzying moment, that's _all_ Stiles can think. That this animal, natural and free and ethereal, is utterly gorgeous, and, hey, Stiles was the one who probably invaded its' territory. If he dies like this, he'll only have his really fucking weird narcoleptic impulses to blame, because, somehow, he doesn't think he could be upset with the _wolf_ for it.

Then the animal backs slowly and deliberately away, keeping its' eyes on Stiles the entire time, until it's just a blot of darkness amongst the overbright, technicolor surroundings, until it's gone entirely. Stiles exhales sharply, his heartbeat thundering as terror mingled with incredulity tangle, wrestle, clock him and wrap restrainingly, biliously around his heart.

What the _fuck_ was he thinking just then? What was he going to do? just sit here and let a wolf vore him because it was _pretty?_ And, if he did die, who would take care of his dad? Scott? Fuck _nature_ —he's a little more than horrified at himself for even letting his thought processes go that far.

"It was—" he sucks in air, refreshing, laced with an icy sting that seems to clear his head, at least a little. "A dream," he finally decides. "It was a dream and I'm still half asleep, and I'm going home now."

(He doesn't realize until after he's stood up that he has no idea where home _is_. He figures it out a four-hour frost-bitten hike filled with colorful curses later, and by that time has all but forgotten the odd waking meet-cute.)

* * *

It happens again, his sleepwalking, and the wolf, and Stiles doesn't know what to do about it. He wakes up amongst the leaves and the groves and the worms, the wolf growls at him, and then it goes, and he finds his way home.

It isn't a dream, or, if it is, it's recurring and way too goddamn realistic.

The third time it happens, the wolf does not growl at all, looks terribly unimpressed instead, and Stiles chokes on an incredulous laugh as the gorgeous, majestic thing backs away.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, shivering when the wind picks up, nips at him, and he wonders what the hell's wrong with him, because this burning feeling inside his chest, that that curious wolf is exceptional, intriguing, something to covet and protect, it keeps _lasting_ , like the longer he's exposed the more infatuated he gets. Maybe he's going crazy, isolation or cabin fever or something. With a sigh, he pulls up gps, begins the arduous trek home and resolves to go _out_ tonight—do something fun, get his head on straight, check on his father.

Maybe tie himself to the bed? or lock himself in his room, at least.

The fourth time it happens (and Stiles will take note of the fact, later, that even in his slumbering zombie state, he can unlock doors and windows as well as the next waking person), the wolf remains passively quiet, and instead of backing away, eyes focused on the threat, it turns its' back on Stiles, and for a startling moment, he's torn between whether that's an act of trust or a dismissal, and finds that the latter actually... he doesn't know. Frustrates him? disappoints him? fills him with this odd, implacable, dreading urgency.

The fifth time it happens, Stiles, helplessly, calls out to the wolf when it turns away, and it looks over its' shoulder, bears its' teeth for a moment, as if irritated, before actually _returning_.

"Um," Stiles risks, high-pitched, kneeling in the mire (it had rained heavily last night, his clothes are a little more than soaked), frozen in more ways than one. "I, uh, heh. I didn't think I'd get this far. I don't even know why I called out to you, I mean, you could _eat_ me. You look like you _want_ to eat me? And I wouldn't even blame you, which is really strange, because I _should_ want to blame you, hell, I should be running right now, but—." His rambling confessions cut off sharply as the wolf draws ever closer, something closely related to _wonder_ in its' pale eyes. "Oh my holy god," he whispers, swallows, and wisely decides to shut the fuck up as the expansive feet between them are steadily bridged, cut down to inches, then centimeters, then the wolf is _right there_ , in all its' glory.

Stiles struggles not to hyperventilate as a wet, cold nose snuffles at his slightly parted lips. The wolf shudders, and for a second Stiles _swears_ its' maelstrom eyes flash a heavy, thick-rich, bloody _red_ , becoming hooded (and wolf's eyes can _do_ that? he didn't know they could do that. Fuck, fuck, fuck, please don't let it eat him) as it heaves in a deep, greedy, wanting inhale, before pressing further into his personal space, "Oh—" nose gliding across the side of his mouth, down and across the length of his jaw, until it's just nuzzling its' whole muzzle into the side of his neck with a pleased rumble- "kay? Okay. Okay, um." He can _feel_ the near purring vibration reverberating from the animal's chest, because it's pressed so tightly against his own, because this, like, _formidable fucking beast_ is-is-is _hugging_ him.

"Oh my god, nothing makes sense," he complains, distressed and exasperated and exhausted by this _whole_ thing. Fuck it, he decides, in for a penny, in for a pound (and part of him seriously feels _right_ about this, warmed to a sickly sweet, overjoyed extent, and that- _that_ \- is the crazy part of him. The completely bonkers, deserves a stint in Eichen part of him, jesus christ), and he gently, slowly, telegraphing all of his movements, wraps his arms around the... kind of blissed-out, if he's being honest, animal.

"Okay, hugging a wild animal, yep. That's totally normal. Everything about this is fine and normal and not life-threatening at all."

The wolf makes a sound that's suspiciously like a snort, backs away a little, _licks Stiles' nose_ , and then turns and bounds off.

Stiles is left there, oddly bereft, and regretting absolutely _everything_.

* * *

High, keening, distraught sounding whines haul Stiles, unwillingly, into the waking world. He is _burning_ , like someone lit hundreds of thousands of matches and set their dancing flames to every drop of his blood, decided that wasn't enough, and dipped him in a vat of _magma_. It's so hot it's fucking cold, his panting breath feels sticky, as laden with fog as his hazy mind, and he can't stop trembling, a shiver-shake relentlessly taking hold of his bones, resting in their hollow, making his heart thud deliriously slow.

He can't think. It's hard to breathe. He wants to sleep.

He says as much to the disembodied warbling whines, but they just come closer. There's snuffling, half urgent, maybe a little desperate, and a soft, cold, animal nose nudges the cheek that isn't firmly planted on the rugged, soppy, twig-strewn ground. Scents swirl, one minute everything smells like snow and crisp, the next like thick loam, and then like bitter-acrid bile. His stomach lurches.

"I can't," he whispers, sodden and breaking, his eyes stinging. Everything aches, scorches, he's shaking out of his skin and he can't manage to still. "I can't," he mumbles again, when a muzzle digs under his shoulder, begging him to get up, move.

It takes nearly everything he has to open his eyes, and, there, pitch and char so stark against the falling snow, against the blurring, unimportant world, is his wolf. Every shallow breath that escapes him creates misted smoke, heat warring with winter, his shivers sharpen, and the wolf whines, pleading, stained-glass eyes wide and concerned, before it presses its' nose to his. Somehow, the gesture feels so much like a _please_ that Stiles manages to move for it.

Fever addles him, and he hates himself, a little, for not having foresight enough to wear better sleep-clothes, for not having worn shoes to bed, especially when he knows, by now, the inevitability—but, still, leaning heavily on his wolf (too exhausted, hazy, to feel daunted, to rely on common sense, especially when the wolf takes his weight with grace, croons ferine encouragements, leads his bleary, unthinking, wretched soul home) he walks stumblingly, feeling for all the world as if he were fighting against the strongest undertow, defying poseidon's tide.

His breath, his heartbeats, come heavy and slow, and he coughs until his throat feels like shattered glass and every frosted inhale is all _agony_ , but every time he thinks to rest his wolf gives a low, haunting, undulating howl, and- Stiles' hands fisted in its' fur, nearly riding it like a goddamned horse- propels them forward.

It passes in a cottony blur, but, eventually, agonizingly, the blistering snow already over two feet deep, they reach the cabin. He doesn't even think twice about letting the wolf inside—why would he? when it's probably saved his life thrice over? when he's so utterly, absolutely horrified of letting it go? when he's whispering, hoarse and cluttered and overwhelmed, tears tumbling down his freeze-sting cheeks, "Don't leave me, don't leave me. Please, please stay."

Darkness crowds, warmth suffuses, and he feels himself pulled, tugged, before a heated, rumbling weight envelops him, solid and firm and _safe_ , as something like peace descends.

* * *

He doesn't know how long he's in that stupor, there are watercolor dream-floaty memories of his wolf whining at him to bathe, drink, eat, sleep, a strong, staining echo of fur sifting through his long, tired fingers, as the wild animal laid curled into him, half on top of him, staying his narcoleptic tendencies and basically demanding attention and purring when it got it.

As the fever began to pass and clarity returned, Stiles realized, like, five incredibly upsetting things in quick succession. One, _he let a wild animal into his house, what the fuck, sick!Stiles, **what the fuck**_ , two, he lost his phone (probably during the whole 'being dragged to safety by a _wolf_ fiasco'—is he obsessing? Yes, he is obsessing. How the fuck do you _not_ , over something like this?), three, they're snowed in (which, great. Just, motherfucking, goddamn, let's give Stiles the shittiest luck to see how long it takes him to go stark raving mad, _great_ ), four, his wolf is male, which wouldn't be upsetting on its own except:

Five. His wolf is pregnant.

Grumpy (the wolf's current name, shut up, he's cycling through ideas and Grumpy fits fucking _perfectly_ ) is laying regally on the bed, watching him half imperiously, as Stiles treads a hole through the fucking floor. He's still vaguely feverish, still prone to coughing fits, but he's mostly better, which he's _extremely_ thankful for considering it's a miracle he didn't get hypothermia, or pneumonia, or something.

"Is this-" he begins, frustratedly tugging his hands through his hair- "is this something that just _happens?_ in nature? Because I'm pretty fucking sure it's not. Oh, hey!" He twirls toward Grumpy, "Maybe you have worms?" It's a weak theory, and he knows it, because he felt little heartbeats and little legs and Grumpy's belly is swollen in _the family way_ and he's pretty sure a lot of their first interactions had to do with territorial nesting instincts. Besides, he's just got... this _feeling_.

His gut, his intuition, is telling him this is important, this _wolf_ is important, and he doesn't know why. He keeps trying to argue with it, rationalize with it, but. Grumpy saved his life, and he's a damn good cuddler, and, Stiles isn't even going to try to lie to himself anymore, he's a _gorgeous_ animal. And he... is it odd to feel like this animal maybe cares for him? it was so... _desperate_ , to get him home, to get him healthy, despite its' own reservations, burdens, instincts. It's hard not to want to reciprocate, _more_.

Grumpy hops off the bed to prowl closer, sniff at Stiles' hand, nip at fingertips in a grotesquely fond way. A request, Stiles realizes, ruffling Grumpy's head a little and scratching behind his ears to the tune of a very content cricket-chirp sonorous sound.

"Of course you don't have worms," Stiles sighs, "because you are the most nonsensical thing to ever exist. A pregnant, male wolf in _california_ , where there haven't _been_ any wolves in, like, six hundred years." He hooks his hand under Grumpy's jaw to get to that good spot he knows makes Grumpy shudder and melt, eyes fluttering gratefully shut. "I'm still half convinced you're a dream," he mutters to himself, but when he goes to sleep, it's with Grumpy settled on top of him, and when he wakes up, it's to the feeling of two, fresh, rapidly beating hearts on the undercurrent of another, stronger, bigger, bass-drum beat.

He can't ignore this. To be honest, he doesn't think he wants to.

* * *

Thankfully, despite the veritable blizzard, and the fact that he's essentially trapped, his wifi's still perfectly fine, which means, of course, that nearly midnight finds Stiles at the dining table, skyping his dad, and Scott, trading snarky emails with Lydia as he tries to research pregnancy in wolves, the possibility of intersex and/or some kind of mutation that would allow for a wolf with only male parts to get knocked up, and chatting over choreography with Charlie, who's more than a little irritated, for all that they _understand_ , that Stiles can't be there to explain it in person; luckily, he's taken a few videos that can be utilized as visual aide, so hopefully Charlie won't be _too_ upset.

It's been two days, possibly longer, since he's slept, non-stop working through everything he needs to, whilst also coming to the disturbing conclusion that he might end up becoming his impossible wolf's doula by the end of it all. He's glad for Scott, who's training to become a veterinarian alongside Deaton's colleague in new york, and Lydia, who's too smart for her own good by half, and all the deputies who've been all too willing to keep his father on his goddamned diet, but he's still too frenetic, manic about it all. The things that concern him, though, have nothing to do with Eyebrows- yes, he changed the name again, Grumpy wasn't working out (read: his wolf began pouting and growling and nipping at him for it, and Stiles, exasperatedly, gave into his machinations)- being a _wolf_.

Which, he's not gonna lie, is still kind of weird, only... well, Eyebrows is pretty cool. He's still _wild_ , and acts it, but he's intelligent and there's this weird _something_ , still, a burning ache in the back of his throat, a heart-stuttering relief and awe that the wolf is _here_ , and it's not the same instinctive, aesthetic thing he felt before it's... companionship, maybe, but a little deeper, tacit, and kind of hopeful.

They settle into oddly unique routines: Eyebrows nests on Stiles' bed, if Stiles is in the bedroom, the couch or the rug, if Stiles is in the living room, and Stiles keeps the heater on high, his comfiest blankets in the wolf's favored spots, he makes meals that they can both eat, and sits on the floor with Eyebrows, pets him, spends time (sometimes they even watch a movie), when he bathes, so does Eyebrows (which could be irritating and fun in equal parts, the separation anxiety as sweet as it was worrying, and the bubblebaths that devolved into giggle-fits and annoyed glares possibly some of the most precious moments he's ever experienced in his life), when he sleeps, so does Eyebrows, when he forgets to- which is often, caught up in research and hyperfocused, gnawing on his fingertips as he tries to psyche himself out and worriedly prepare for the upcoming birth- Eyebrows yips and chidingly snarls and drags him to bed. Stiles doesn't know if he does this because he's too invested in being close to Stiles to be able to go to bed himself without him, or because Stiles is the designated pillow, but his general reaction, at this point, is nothing less than fond.

The camaraderie, friendship, give and take, between them brushes like stardust against his heart, sunlight bursts in his mouth, flows down his throat, fills the pit he's been carrying in his belly for so long he'd nearly forgotten it was there, and, _god_ , but it tastes sweet. Refreshing.

The snow continues to fall, and Stiles thinks he finds home there, with his wolf beside him, holding him and happily, contentedly, letting him cling back.

As the days pass, Kopeć's ( _yeah_... they're still working on it, but this name's had the best run, at least) belly swells, and Stiles teaches himself everything he can. The more knowledge he's got on hand, the less wary he is, his excitement slowly, steadily rising.

One day, a crisp morning, all cloudless skies and sun screaming, reflecting in a dazzling, dizzying way on the immaculate, towering snow, Stiles stretches his body out underneath Kopeć, bones cracking, muscles singing with relief, scratches his sleepy wolf under the chin and breathes, "God, I can't wait until they get here."

His wolf looks up at him, a little wonderingly, and Stiles grins, wide and giddy in a way he hasn't been in years. "You're gonna be a _dad,"_ he says, breathless, enamored already, "and we're gonna have pups in the house, and they're going to destroy everything, and it's gonna be _awesome."_

Kopeć blinks at him, and something _big_ enters his wide, atmospheric eyes, something astounded and keening and so, so, _completely_ human. Sunlight and sugar and glass, all shattering and collecting and refracting, both of them caught in that moment, hearts and lungs held still in the seeming fragility of it, and then his wolf blinks again, huffs a little, and shifts so his belly is more solidly connected to Stiles', so those two burgeoning heartbeats can be felt, known.

He wonders, for a second, what that was, between them, before he shakes himself out of it and runs his hand through Kopeć's soft, _soft_ smoke-char fur.

* * *

The snow relents. It's still cold, but they're no longer trapped, and Stiles needs _out_. Kochanie (yes, it's been changed again, but at least this time it's. _Accurate_ , in every sense of the word.) whines when Stiles, ridiculously layered, opens the door to leave.

"What's up, big guy? You wanna come with me?" A maw snaps, ferocious growl sounds, eyes flash a vivid sanguine (he's gotten used to it, just another in a series of strange, unexplainable phenomena). "Dude, I've _gotta_ go—I need to check on my dad, I need to get groceries, I need to consult with Deaton and get you a birthing bed, I need to meet up with my boss and pray they're not pissed at me for the weather, which I have no control over, and, beyond that, I swear to everything good and holy, if I spend one more minute in this motherfucking house, I am gonna bash my brains in, so."

Kochanie goes low, almost army crawling toward the opened door, teeth bared and ears back the entire way, a chainsaw rip-shred growl resounding from somewhere deep in his throat.

"Oh, come _on_ , you sourwolf—you don't have to come if you don't want to."

Kochanie snarls, creeps to Stiles' feet, and then _lays on them_ , overprotective and unbudgeable.

"I'm still going," he tells the wolf, and it looks up at him half plaintively, but when he stalks the rest of the way to his jeep, the wolf prowls after, hypervigilant and overcautious, bright eyes tracing every tree, every mound of snow, not yet _heavily_ pregnant body wound tight enough that, Stiles is sure, if anyone were to _dare_ try to sneak up on them, they'd get their throat ripped clean out for their troubles.

He feels vaguely amused and oddly endeared by that, if he's being honest, and presses a grateful kiss behind one ink-silk canid ear when Kochanie gets settled in the passenger seat. The wolf chuffs, like Stiles is oh, so troublesome, but nuzzles his cold nose into Stiles' throat for a moment, anyway.

* * *

Stiles realizes, maybe a little late, that Kochanie doesn't look, in _any_ respect, like a dog. To be honest, he might not look entirely like a proper wolf, either, he's bigger, fluffier, a hell of a lot more intimidating.

"You look like some kind of _demon,"_ Stiles despairs when he pulls into the sheriff station's parking lot and one glare from Kochanie has a group of teenagers running the _fuck_ away, one of the more sensitive of their lot nearly bursting into tears. "Could you maybe tone it down a little?"

Kochanie just glares at _him_ instead.

Well.

"Fine. But you can't come inside with me." His eyes narrow, trepidatious, "You'd get me arrested. Wolves are not something people can have for pets."

Kochanie's glare hardens, something stubborn and unavoidable in it, he inclines his head a little and his brow raises in a move so fucking sardonic and _human_ that Stiles nearly chokes.

"No!" He's not sure if the high-cracking of his voice is due to incredulity or hysterics. Maybe it's both. Maybe that fever he had drove him crazy. Maybe Kochanie's a hallucination.

Kochanie holds the look.

"Oh my—oh my _god_ , whatever. Fine, fine, who am I to argue."

His wolf looks entirely too smug as Stiles helps him climb out of the jeep, leads him into the station to greet suspicious, wary, and indulgent deputies who figure this is _Stiles_ , and why _wouldn't_ he have a mildly terrifying illegal animal hot on his heels, clicking its' teeth at the lot of them for even daring to look, circling Stiles' legs, fierce and loyal and unwavering? Stiles flashes a lot of wan smiles, ignores the more questioning, gaping bystanders, and steels himself as he opens the door into his father's office.

(The sheriff had already known about the wolf, but is still frustrated by Stiles letting it come _inside the station_ , which is just as well, because Stiles catches him with a bag of greasy, not heart healthy at all, _junk food_.

They hug, and then they yell, and then they hug again, and his dad promises to be more attentive to his diet- like he always does- and Stiles coaxes a slumbering Kochanie out from under the sheriff's desk, smirking when he notices his dad watching on, already three shades shy of endeared.)

* * *

Going to work isn't nearly as disastrous as he'd thought it would be, because Kochanie is exhausted, already, and Charlie'd had enough foresight to set up a pretty comfy area for him somewhere close enough he could see and hear everything, but far enough away he wouldn't get caught up in the action and hurt.

It only takes around three hours to get the dancers caught up to where they need to be—Stiles is both lucky and grateful for Charlie, being corralled into becoming a last-minute assistant choreographer and stepping up the way they did? they deserve a fruit-basket, and _more_ , but videos and emails can only do so much, and the director has a complicated vision, and they're only going to have two days on-set actually _filming_ , so they need to have this _down_.

After the rigorous training, everyone is breathless and dead-tired, movements zombified by aching muscles and most of them having had long, _long_ days before they even came in. It doesn't deter them from trying to pester about Kochanie, though, some delighted, others disdainful, Jackson, in particular, snubbing and sniping.

Stiles whacks the asshole over the head, answers most of their questions with a simple, "He followed me home and I fell in love with him," before urging his wolf to wake enough to get back in the car and away from all these pestering, overly nosy goddamned dancers.

He's still sweat-slick and exertion-flushed and part of him wants so desperately for his bed and the weight of Kochanie on top of him and the feel of three heartbeats coalescing with his that he nearly gives in and just goes home, but he doesn't, determined and pushing himself, grating against his own nerves, he goes to the veterinary clinic, instead.

He glares balefully at Kochanie, who, when he rounds the car to help him out, hunkers down.

"Really? You insisted on following me everywhere else, and now that I _want_ you to follow me, you won't?"

The wolf nestles its' muzzle into its' paws, and Stiles sighs heavily.

"I _will_ pick you up and carry you."

Kochanie opens one eye to peer at him, disbelieving, and Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. The staring contest lasts well over a minute before the wolf warbles an irritated sound and allows Stiles to help him climb down, huffing and clicking his teeth at him when Stiles does a victorious fist-pump.

* * *

"A _what_ now?" Stiles asks Deaton, completely thrown for a loop, and three clicks away from throwing some punches, just for the _sake_ of it.

"A werewolf," the vet tells him placidly, a faint hint of amusement in the twitch of his lips, and Stiles looks down at the wolf who is, and has always been impossible. Far too human, eyes that go from swirling, tumultuous seas to hemorrhaging, oozing, luminescent blood, an animal, a _person_ underneath, that he's felt drawn to, that he's long since given up on _not_ caring for, protecting, _loving_. Stiles looks at Kochanie and he believes him.

"Okay," he breathes, coming to terms with it as quickly as he is able, "doesn't werewolf imply that he—." Stiles trails off, flapping a generalizing hand, and Deaton smiles pleasantly. _I still want to punch you,_ Stiles thinks, half-heartedly seething.

"Yes. But... well. I do not know if it's because of his condition or his state of mind, but something is prohibiting him from releasing the full-shift."

"His state of mind?"

"Yes," Deaton answers, not unkindly. "It appears he's high-functioning, and, I have to admit, everything about this is _highly_ unusual, but, in my professional opinion, and from what you've told me, he's bordering on feral. It's possible that staying with you has helped him relearn some of his humanity, but his human spirit seems to be... dormant, at the moment."

"I—uh." Stiles heaves a sigh, sinks a jitter-shaky hand into Kochanie's side, sifting through fur, gently tangling and tugging and scratching, absently, trying to soothe himself maybe. Kochanie eyes him curiously and Stiles feels a sudden wave of confusing shame, because what if the human side of his wolf would _hate_ being treated like this? How many of their interactions has Stiles fucked up simply because he didn't _know?_ how many times had Stiles treated him like a... like a _dog_ , and how much of that would he remember when he— _would_ he?

"You think I'm helping him?" he asks softly, pulling his hand away, despite how his fingers twitch and his body yearns and he suddenly feels very, very cold.

"Perhaps," Deaton agrees.

"Is there anything we could do to-to pull him out of—what did you call it? the full-shift? Is there any way to make him human again?"

"... Perhaps," Deaton repeats, unhelpfully, but he sounds thoughtful. "I would have to look into it."

"And the pups?"

"Twins," Deaton tells him, a fond smile gracing his face. "Perfectly healthy, whether he remains in the full-shift or returns to his human form, he should be able to have a perfectly healthy, natural birth. It might be better to bring him to me if he goes into labor, but I have faith you'd be able to handle it on your own without any complications."

Stiles runs his fingers through his hair, tugs hard enough to nearly rip, begins pacing, Kochanie keeping a sleepy, but watchful eye on him, worry curling along the line of the wolf's shoulders, canid ears twitching, tracking. "I could help, I-I could help you look into it, I mean, researching is my thing, and I'm obviously invested—or, well, not invested. I _care_ about... And how do you know all this stuff, anyway?"

Deaton chuckles quietly at him, says, "Give me a moment, I'll fetch you some of my books," and then disappears into the backroom, leaving Stiles to his fidgeting silence, all hyperaware and anxious and awkward. Kochanie's concern only seems to grow.

The wolf murmurs an inquisitive whine, and Stiles stands, helpless, at a loss, frozen, until Deaton returns with a pile of tomes and scrolls and journals for him to look through; he leaves the good doctor, books and Kochanie well in hand, and hopes, vaguely, that his wolf's human counterpart won't... hate him? be disappointed, ashamed?

(He refrained from touching or petting Kochanie while they were shopping- the whole affair was necessary (they were out of food, and what if they got snowed in again?) but completely ridiculous, the other shoppers wouldn't stop gawking, and the one cashier who tried to separate them nearly got their arm ripped off before giving it up as a lost cause- and the whole way home, and the wolf became steadily, increasingly unsettled by it, whining and growling quietly at different turns. Stiles did his best to ignore the gnawing guilt, the scorn of his own insecurity, worry.

He failed, mostly.)

* * *

It's been a week since the big werewolf reveal, and in that time Stiles has been researching _endlessly;_ he knows, now, about Pack and Pack Dynamics and _more_. He knows Kochanie is an Alpha, probably _his_ Alpha, and that he needs three Betas in order for that power to truly be stable. He knows that a male werewolf pregnancy isn't an impossibility, though it's incredibly rare. He knows that bringing Kochanie out of his full-shift is the first step toward making him less feral. He understands that it might take longer than four or so months (which is all they have left) to get back whoever Kochanie _was_. He understands that the _fastest_ way to return the wolf to the man is to find his Mate (every wolf has one, a Mate, by choice, or a True Mate, by magic and destiny and Gods and something even stronger than all of that) but that the likelihood of finding said Mate is next to impossible.

Nevermind how the idea makes Stiles' stomach turn, which he doesn't even _understand_. He has _no_ right to feel sick over the idea of Kochanie with someone else, of those two, tiny, fragile heartbeats belonging in a family that doesn't involve him— _none_. And, yet.

He realizes just how selfish, unfair he's being, when Kochanie comes closer with a low, wanting whine in his throat, every padding step telegraphed and slow, warily hopeful, eyes screaming _please_ loud enough to make Stiles' heart _ache_ , because he's been all but avoiding his wolf ever since he found out.

"Come here," he whispers, voice loud in the pitch-dark, twilight-drenched quiet. Kochanie _runs_ , yipping and relieved and with enough eagerness to make Stiles throw his head back and laugh, one of the tight, trembling knots in his chest loosening as he holds the warm, silk-furred wolf in his lap, close to his chest. He's perched in the sliding glass doorway that leads out back, toward the Preserve and a spill of tree-cluttered snowy horizon, back and feet anchored to the archway, crisp, chilled air seeping in, making him shiver and clutch Kochanie tighter. The sky is stippled with stars, a graceful, melodious lullaby sort of thing, those ancient beams of light tangling with void-shadows, dancing.

"I was lonely," Stiles confesses, tries to make it sound lighter than it is. Kochanie rumbles, his eyes drawn to the same tapestry of constellations as Stiles'. "I was _so_ lonely before you found me. I mean, I have Scott, and I have dad, I even have Lyds, but... My dad, he's—." Stiles exhales sharply, curls his fingers in Kochanie's fur, eases, a little, when the wolf leans into him. "He's a sportsy guy, more than anything, kind of, just—a _sheriff_ , first and foremost, but a kick back on the sofa and watch football games, very go with the flow black and white with occasional instances of gray type of guy, and that's fine. That's _good_. I love him so much I don't even have words for it, but _connecting_ with him? That's always been hard.

"And everyone else went away to college at the same time I decided to move into this big, empty, stupid fucking cabin, not to mention no one, _no one_ believed in me when I said I could pursue my dream and survive. I told them I wanted to dance, and they all fucking _laughed_ , but I did it. I got my foot in the door, got hired by some eccentric little company, I'm _coreographing_ music videos and musicals and—. They still don't think it will last, none of them do.

"And maybe part of it was that I was running away from them, from that, because all of a sudden you're here and I have someone who _needs_ me again. God, I hadn't contacted Lydia or Scott in _months_ , but you, you forced me to. And I wasn't lonely anymore. And it was so, so fucking _good_ , Kochanie."

He shudders out a tearful sigh, and the wolf makes a solicitous, mourning noise, laps the saltwater from his cheeks. "I'm scared," Stiles admits, "that human, not-feral you won't like me, will hate me for how I've treated you for these past few months, but, god, I don't want to be this lonely, and I can't fucking survive pushing you away, so." He sniffs, breathes in deep, runs ragged hands across Kochanie's ears, down his flank, hugs him and buries his face into the wolf's thickly-furred neck, smells heat and dried flowers, pressed between the pages of ancient tomes in willow-wood bookshelves weathering the rain.

Thousands of prayers bloom and wilt on his tongue, _Please don't leave me,_ and, _I think I need you,_ and, _I think I love you,_ but he'd never say that. How could he, when he doesn't even know him yet?

"I'll get you back," he rasps, tightening his hold, and Kochanie coos a soft sound into his hair, "whoever you are. I'll get you back, and then... eat crow. For all of it." He shivers a little, the tears falling faster now, and Kochanie whines for him, but he can't stop crying, can't stop the outpour, the fall.

"I'm sorry I'm so selfish," he gasps, and doesn't let go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The vaguest Kate Argent warning I've ever given, but, still, you've been warned. Also, also, she dies, hence the minor character death warning, there's _nothing_ explicit about it, at all, it's just mentioned.

Stiles is, for once, taking a break from research. He knows he needs more than he's got now, he knows he doesn't know enough and he hasn't done enough (beyond feeding Kochanie special herbs and inviting over the dancers most intrigued by his friend- Erica, Boyd, and Isaac- and hoping fledgling packbonds would somehow form), but he feels exhausted and burnt-out and Kochanie has been extra cuddly as the months wear on, so lounging on the couch with him doesn't feel like a bad idea at all. In fact, as he rests his eyes, and smooths a hand through onyx fur, his wolf melting into his lap, this might be the best idea he's had in a _while_.

Steadily, Kochanie's now-familiar cricket-chirp purring cadence rumbles down into something low, gritted out of his throat with raw violence and bared teeth. Stiles' mouth is already concernedly forming his name when the wolf bounds away from him, its' heavily pregnant form not impeding it at all as it bowls through the door with an aggressive battle-ready howl. There's a grunt, just out of sight, a male body underneath his rampaging wolf and a wholly strange, gravelly voice snapping, _"Derek."_

Which would be concern enough on its' own, even ignoring the fact that, when Stiles creeps trepidatiously closer, the barrel of a _gun_ is being pressed up against Kochanie's jaw. The moment he sees that, his world fucking _stops_.

Every thought, every heartbeat, all his focus becomes washed out, bleached and stained a messy scarlet at the edges as pure, unadulterated _fury_ coarses through him. This, this _stranger_ , threatening his wolf, his _pups?_ It burns so bright and _cold_ , and before he's even thought it through, knows what he's doing, he's got the ax normally utilized for chopping firewood in his steady hands.

"Kochanie," he warns, quiet and intent, and, somehow, that's all the wolf needs to leap out of the way just as Stiles slices the ax's sharp, wide, gleaming blade through the air, stops just short of cleaving it clear through the man's throat. It would be _so easy_ , and, honestly, he doesn't even think he'd regret it.

His empathy is _numbed_.

"You wanna tell me what you were doing pointing a gun at my dog?" His voice bears more freeze than the ground, covered in glossy snow, than the bite of winter-crisp air burning his heaving lungs, and the lie is blatant. He doesn't care. The person who pointed a gun at his family doesn't deserve any kind of _honesty_.

"You're gonna call _that_ a dog?" The man with peppery hair and a sand-paper authority voice asks incredulously, even as he drops his gun, lake-water eyes glued to the top of the blade he lifts his palms up in surrender.

Stiles bears his teeth, forgetting himself entirely, lets the razor-sharp edge of steel taste blood, and the man's expression goes grim. "Answer my fucking question," Stiles demands, heated.

"That's not a dog, _or_ a wolf—it's a _werewolf."_

* * *

Stiles paces his kitchen, the man's- Chris'- weapons splayed out on the counter before him, _all_ of them, crossbow and bolts and daggers and guns and clips and darts and wolfsbane, the whole lot.

Chris sits, passively, on his couch, and Kochanie has sequestered himself in the cupboard under the sink, curling protectively around his stomach, vigilant and untrusting.

"Are you kidding me?" Stiles finally asks, mind overfull, body buzzing. He feels frustrated and nerve-wracked and hyper, fueled with a difficultly complex sort of adrenaline.

"No," is the simple, stern response, and part of Stiles genuinely wants to take one of Chris' guns, and shoot him with it.

"So, what, you're a hunter, and your werewolf friend got... _something'ed_ by a faerie, is suddenly pregnant, and your first instinct is to hunt him down and kill him?"

"You don't understand, what he's carrying-" Chris gestures to the wolf, and Stiles is very unsurprised by the growl he receives for the motion- "isn't going to be a _child _, it's going to be—"__

"His choice," Stiles interrupts, steady, unwavering.

Chris stares. "What."

"Whatever he wants to do with _his_ baby," he enunciates, clearly, seethingly, something dangerous and vengeful still lodged deep within him, unrelenting (and it doesn't escape him that he made that singular, one less target for Chris to mentally paint on their backs), "is his choice." He turns his gaze to... _Derek_. "Do you want to keep them?"

His wolf blinks, thawing as he seems to register the words, and in a move so utterly human that pride and hope swells helplessly, tremendous and adoring, in Stiles' chest, he nods. Stiles grins, wide and so, so, _so_ pleased, before returning his attention, a little calmer, his anger quelled by joy, to Chris.

"Get the fuck out."

Chris scoffs out something derisive and disbelieving, "You can't be serious."

"Yes, I am." Kochanie- _Derek_ , he reminds himself- shouldn't ever feel so uncomfortable in their home as to find a nook he can protect himself in, and Stiles never should've let a hunter, the lingering sillage of wolfsbane, inside in the first place. "Get the fuck out of my house and stay the fuck away from us."

"Even after everything I told you?" Chris asks leadingly, near desperately, as he moves to stand, and Stiles subtly rests his hand on the counter, close to a gun that he knows, with his father's training to back him, he could wield with ease.

"Yes," he repeats, all poison-silk promise.

"For all we know, Derek _conceiving_ could-could _kill_ him-" Stiles' heart clenches, hard, at that, but he keeps his face as blank as he is able- "Hell, it could jump-start apocalypse-now."

"I don't care. _Get the fuck out of my house, and stay the fuck away from us."_

Because maybe, maybe Derek... won't survive the birth, maybe the world won't. But maybe it _will._

It's a hell of a fucking gamble. It's his only hope in hell, and it's suddenly so, incredibly _insulting_ to have Chris here, impeding on such a personal, intimate kind of decision (because that's what this is, that's the only thing this _can_ be).

"Go," he bites, and thanks every god that has ever existed or could that Chris leaves without protest, doesn't even ask for his weapons back. Good fucking riddance.

The moment he's gone Stiles feels shaky, dizzy, releases a long breath that leaves him a little hollow before collapsing in front of Derek's little hidy-hole. No sooner have his knees hit the ground with a solid thud than the wolf charges him, nestling into a hug that Stiles accepts clingingly, all wrung-out and overstressed.

"So your name's Derek, huh?" he murmurs, light, laughter-stained, for all that it comes out a little water-logged. A cold nose presses into his pulse-point, breathes in deep as Derek rumbles, bass-timbre, the feel of it pressed so closely to Stiles' chest like a fucking tranquilizer, and he leans into it, holds his wolf impossibly tighter. "Why do I feel like that's not the last we're going to see of him?" he whispers into glossy pitch fur, anxiety a cold, hard thing, digging nails into his chest and _ripping_ , clawing for the gush of blood.

Derek growls a little whiningly and burrows further into their embrace, a static feeling of the unknown pressing in on them, all urgency, despite their impotence in the face of it. All he can do is protect his wolf, and pray, help the pups be born, and pray.

He's never denied that he is a selfish person, but he never thought he'd risk the whole world for someone he doesn't even, necessarily, know.

... Oh, well. Such is life, love, loyalty, because, yes, he is terrified, but Derek, the pups, are, somehow, far, far more important to him than that fear.

* * *

He doesn't know how it happens, or why, though both he and Deaton have been working toward it religiously, only that, one night, Derek is terribly restless, grunting and whining and unable to settle down.

"Kochanie," he groans, lethargy congealing in his bones, _"please."_

And, with that, the wolf leaps off of the bed, and leaves the room. It's unsettling, if Stiles is being honest, because he hasn't been without the warm weight of his wolf since his fever, and a distant, tired part of him realizes there's a chance that if he lets himself fall asleep _without_ Derek there, he might end up careening out of the house in a deep-sleep stupor, which would _not_ be fun. But he'd had a _long_ day today, did some repairs where they were necessary, went to work, checked on his dad, spent over three hours with an irritating, enigmatic druid who keeps dropping vague hints that Stiles is maybe magic and/or he knows where Derek's Mate is, spent two hanging out with Derek and Erica and Boyd, Isaac cancelling for a date, spent most of the rest of the night studying Deaton's tomes, and now it's nearly three in the morning and he knows, he _knows_ he's got stuff to do tomorrow.

His eyes flutter blearily closed, almost against his own volition, too heavy to open again, and, fitfully, tendrils of lonely cold seeping in, a longing for the beating of three extra hearts close to his and a purring rumble lullaby echoing through him, he manages sleep.

He's not gonna lie, he's more than a little surprised he wakes up still inside his house—yeah, sure, not on his bed, but not on a mat of twigs and leaves, exposed to the elements, either. Instead, he blinks awake in his living room, directly in front of... a man.

A broad, muscular, swollen bellied, very naked _man_ , who is both a bloody mess and a total fucking miracle because holy _shit_. "Derek," Stiles breathes, awed, fingertips lifting up to Derek's scruffy jaw, searching the tormented tsunamis of his eyes, heart skipping several beats as that feeling he had at the very beginning overtakes him, makes every thought tumble into _he's beautiful._ Then, very distinctly his own, and so much heavier, devestatingly honest, _I would die for him, for so little, I would die for him, and so much._

_I love him. God, I love him._

He shouldn't, some part of him rationalizes, for everything they've been through, he's only known this man as a feral wolf, he shouldn't feel anything like this at all.

"Derek?" Stiles wonders, fingernails scratching a little at his chin, toying with his soft beard, fucking _reveling_ in it.

He doesn't let himself hope too greatly, he knows too much, now, for that, but he still sighs, more disappointed than he wants to be, when Derek's only response is a soft, almost confused, animal sound.

"Okay, Kochanie," he murmurs, sliding one of his hands down to Derek's, leading the pliant man toward the kitchen, dragging a few chairs along so they can sit, facing each other, next to the sink. For decency's sake, Stiles covers Derek's lap with a towel, for now, before putting a stopper in the sink and filling it with warm, warm water. Later, he'll probably have to give Derek a proper bath, but, honestly, he's still pretty tired, he's decently sure he only got an hour- maybe less- of sleep, and his brain is unwilling to reason out how the new mechanics of a human body would work in accordance with bathing.

"I should be way more shocked than I am," he mutters, turning off the faucet and dipping a clean washcloth in the water, cleaning a surprisingly yielding Derek's hands, gently laving the cloth at his long, wide fingertips, clearing coppery muck that he firmly tries- knowing full well some of the things Derek's done to prey-animals in full-shift- not to question. "But I guess I've been preparing for this for a while, I've been trying to _enable_ it, for a while.

"All my research- and Deaton- has specified releasing the full-shift as the first step toward 'reintegrating' with your human side. And I've been doing everything within my power to get you to this point, at the very least, because it'll be easier on your body to give birth this way. I mean, I mostly feel _happy_. I don't know if it was me or you or the pups, but whatever got you this far..." He rambles, trails off as he washes slick, muddied scarlet from Derek's arms, quietly lamenting, "Jesus, Der, what did you do?"

Derek, who'd been staring at him intensely (most people would consider it glowering, but Stiles has received the same look from an obsidian wolf, much more ferocious and wild, and is entirely undaunted by its' human counterpart in Derek's face), blinks, looks down at himself with a vague kind of confusion that makes Stiles' stomach flip, he looks so goddamned human.

Sighing, and trying to calm himself down, Stiles rinses the washcloth out, returns to his work, tenderly scrubbing at the 'were's face. Derek makes a near offended noise that Stiles snickers at, unrelenting and without any pity whatsoever, as Derek scrunches his eyes shut, indignantly enduring.

Laughingly, Stiles coos, "There you are; there" because this, _this_ is what makes it feel real, makes Derek _Derek_ , and because he looks... himself. Clean. Raw. Pale, ethereal eyes open, soft and just shy of warm, windows into a creaking, duct-tape soul hidden behind something fiercely protective, all claws and bared teeth, but vulnerable, in this intimate, secluded moment. Naked before him, and nothing less than brave for it.

Stiles is... honored, floored, and his breath catches around a terribly quiet, horrifyingly adoring, besotted, airy, "Hello."

Derek shifts slightly, and Stiles swallows, begs his heartbeat to slow, desperately tries to distract himself with wringing the washcloth out only to drop it into the sink with a tiny splash when the man leans forward until his nose is right under Stiles', scant centimeters away from Stiles' mouth, inhaling deep, almost greedy. A sound like an infinite choir of crickets rumbles through Derek's chest, and Stiles gasps a shivering, yearning, kind of humiliating sound, something hot coiling in his belly when Derek goes lower, scenting Stiles' pulse-point, pressing his mouth there in a tiny caress that makes Stiles bite back a moan, tremble.

He knows what this is, it's just. It's scenting, it's Pack, but it's also Derek marking him as _his_ , it's also Derek _touching him_ , and it's so fucking different, now, like this, more breathtaking, heartbreaking, it cracks open a well of _want_ inside of him so deep and cavernous he doesn't even know if he'll survive it, throat tightening, eyes stinging sharply.

Derek's purr pitches up into a little whine as he cuddles into the crook of Stiles' neck, wraps his arms solidly around him, warm and human and alive and _there_. Stiles curls his own arms up Derek's back, clinging to shoulder blades, and, when Derek shudders, whimpers out something dangerously close to a sob, he soothes, "Hey, I've got you, big guy. Shh-sh, it's okay, I've got you." One hand gentles up and down, running over the nobs of his spine, the other tangling fingers through the short hairs on the back of his neck—he wonders where this outpouring of emotion is coming from, if his Alpha reacted to the emotions in his scent, in their packbond, or if the shock of being in human form is catching up to him, and he doesn't rightly care.

Selfishly, he holds him close, croons calming nonsense, _breathes_. Derek pressed up flush against him like this, the towel meant to be providing a modicum of modesty already fallen to the floor, Stiles' legs bracketing Derek's hips—it's less sexual than you'd think, to be honest. It just feels terrifyingly, shiver-sweetly delicate, kind, _theirs_.

A moment to own, hoarde, covet.

Still, he mourns the loss when Derek draws away, lingering hands traveling down Stiles' arms, lacing their fingers together and, intently, purposefully, slowly, and with eyes bright and full of inescapable meaning, Derek pulls Stiles toward him, presses Stiles' shaky palms to the swell of his belly, and Stiles—

Two fluttering, fragile, butterfly heartbeats, his Alpha's eyes flashing a deep, blood-drenched copper red, his heart thundering wildly in his chest—he short-circuits, starts babbling, helpless, as tears of joy or fear or hope or _ache_ well in his eyes, choking him with the pure emotion. He goes on, hiccuping and giggling and awed beyond imagining, about how he's been researching _wolf_ babies, and now he needs to research _human_ babies, and how the fuck are they going to deal with this, and, "Oh— _oh_ my god, they just _kicked_ me!"

He laughs wetly, overcome, eyes fluttering up, and Derek's looking down at Stiles' hands on his belly, all soft-nurture, smiling so Stiles catches a glimpse of bunny teeth, dimples under his beard, crinkles around his sparkling eyes, everything painted fragile by the waxing moonlight pooling through the window, and Stiles swears to everything that if he weren't already in love with this man, he would've fallen right then. As it is, he's pretty damn sure he falls _deeper_ , and _how?_ how on earth could he possibly love him, love all of them, _more?_

Derek's eyes trace back up to him, a deep breath in, exhaled slow with a vaguely confused moue as he cocks his head. Stiles, understanding the unspoken question, floored and tremulous, whispers, cracking with all the many emotions he's incapable of hiding right now, "You were smiling."

He cups Derek's cheeks, half beaming through tears and every-fucking-thing else as he watches the man in front of him bloom again, so gentle and gorgeous that it takes Stiles' breath away, his heart aching in this bittersweet, undefinable way. "You're _smiling,"_ he says again, softer than he means to, on the edge of a giggle, high on it, on this... meeting. Because that's a little what this feels like.

A meeting, an epiphany, an answered prayer. A glorious pit-fall he wouldn't stop for the world, he doesn't think he could even if he tried, it's. It always was, would be, and _is_ , somehow, in that unbelievable way that rings with _fate_.

"Just like that," Stiles croons, helpless and hopeful and beyond adoring as Derek's smile gets all the wider. "You're _beautiful_. Or, well, handsome? or, I guess—"

Derek kisses him.

It's as unexpected as it isn't, and he gasps against that hallowed smile, tries and fails not to melt into it, beg for more. A soft press, caress, before the man's moving away, taking his stunned hand, and getting up, leading him back upstairs, toward the bed to cuddle and return to sleep.

Staring up at the ceiling, lips still tingling, body enveloped by an impossible, pregnant, naked werewolf he is almost certainly and mildly unreasonably in love with, Stiles blinks, hard, and realizes regaining his footing in this situation is not a thing that's ever going to happen.

"Oh," he sighs, and just like that, accepts it.

* * *

Stiles doesn't really know what he's doing, though Derek certainly seems to, on occasion.

He hasn't really changed, from human to wolf, with certain exceptions that Stiles always marvels and can't help being inordinately proud of. He's still stubborn and scowly and mute, despite his easy-to-decipher deadpanned expressions. He's still overprotective and clingy, wary of nearly everyone except Stiles, decently okay with Erica (who seemed more speculative than surprised by Kochanie disappearing, replaced by a half-feral mute man in very baggy clothes who Stiles still... calls Kochanie. Often. Yeah, he's not being very lowkey about this at all, is he?), Isaac (who is just, generally, sarcastically infuriating about the whole thing), Boyd (one unimpressed raised eyebrow, and the stoic man let it be, acted as if this was the way things have always been, which is disconcertingly accurate), and Stiles' dad (who is suspiciously annoyed, aggrieved, and vaguely worried in varying turns, where Stiles is becoming exasperated and irritably amused by his father's not-so-subtle interrogations and guessing accusations), but the epitome of wolfy impatience and growling aggression with everyone else—which makes the whole clingy thing a lot harder to navigate. Acting like that as a wolf? understandable, acceptable, even, as a human? well.

Not so much.

They still share the same bed, and Stiles gets to experience the little oddities and wonders that come with snuggling into a different type of body. In many ways, Derek's heavier, but not as warm, they fit together differently, and instead of easily feeling the twins' heartbeats he instead gets all their rowdy restlessness—between how many times Derek gets up to pee and how many nights the pups are simply unwilling to settle, neither of them get much sleep, but it's still... it is, honestly, the sweetest, most happy-joyful form of insomnia Stiles has ever experienced. He knows it's not exactly the same for Derek, who often comes back to bed with too-dark smudges underneath his eyes, grimacing slightly, only to turn vaguely murderous (and isn't it funny that the wolf's wild and ferine and _predator_ transfers altogether too neatly onto the man?) at the sight and smell of a giddy, dopily grinning smile, tilting into a bestial tackle that only manages to make Stiles cackle.

And then, Derek will lift up off of him, and look at him like he's... like he's a _gift_. Stiles doesn't know how else to explain that look, it's so incredibly open and fond, carries benedictions, says that Stiles is a promise, everything he's ever wanted, everything he's ever _needed_ , and it always, always swallows him whole, makes him want to cry, and he'll never know if the tears he might shed would be happy or devastated, because he still doesn't know who Derek will be when he remembers himself.

The laughter gets tangled up in that, and Derek, getting a little murky, cloudy, furrowed, will cock his head, like he's confused by something.

Stiles wonders, like he does every time, if another Derek, one propelled by choice rather than instinct, will forgive him, as his wolf leans in and kisses him, sound and lovely.

Stiles' heart breaks (it is always breaking, these days), then it _soars_ (it is always doing that, too), and he kisses back because he can't not. Because he loves him, oh, how he loves him.

They curl into each other, close their eyes, and are granted no less than five minutes more of sleep before the cycle starts again.

When the sun rises, that chaste kiss gets a little deeper, licking and biting, but languid, without purpose, and then they both leave the bed to bathe together (a routine that's only a little different, in that, instead of Stiles washing them both, they wash each other, easy and simpler than Stiles would've expected), brush their teeth (Derek acts like a child about it, but Stiles is stern and, albeit petulantly, grudgingly, it gets done), their hair, put on clothes (his wolf is a nudist, so Stiles has no idea how long the clothes will stay _on_ , but he's got backups stashed literally everywhere, and he's at least trained Derek not to strip in public or in company, so... there's that), and eat breakfast. They leave the cabin, then, and go visit Stiles' dad, go to Stiles' work (the other dancers- excepting Erica and Isaac and Boyd and, occasionally, Charlie- just as distrusting and avoiding of Derek as he is of them), visit Deaton (who Derek _endures_ , more than anything, and who only has positive things to say in terms of Derek and the pups' current physical health and well-being, promising, too, that Derek's humanity seems to be resurfacing much faster than he expected, which can only be a good thing), go shopping, go home where Stiles cooks dinner, researches, gets dragged to the couch to become a snuggle/make-out pillow before they both, inevitably, go to bed.

Casual scenting and kissing and nuzzling is so intrinsic to their everyday lives that avoiding doing it in public doesn't even cross his mind, which leads to pretty much everyone he knows questioning his taste in men (including his dad, who would probably get mauled if he ever tried to corner Derek to give him the shovel talk), something he finds himself caring a lot less about than he thought he would because... well, there's a delicate, fragile, sometimes yearning happiness, here that's just so much more important.

Derek, he finds, in almost everything, is more important, and he wonders why that's calming, easing, _loving_ , but it is.

Time... moves quickly, with only a few hiccups, silly spats between them, a letter from Chris Argent explaining some things in more detail:

_His name is Derek Hale, you can find more on your own, I'm sure, but this is what happened to his family..._

_It was my little sister, she manipulated him..._

_She was Turned, a werejaguar..._

_We'd been hunting her..._

_If this mess doesn't destroy the world, here's my number._

(After reading it, Stiles had _wept_ , he'd cried like a fucking baby, agonized and choking, and he'd held Derek like he was the only lifeline he'd ever had, ever would, utterly inconsolable as the man got a little panicked, whining and whimpering and, eventually, just holding him back, at a loss.

He struggles, more often than he'd like, not to compare himself to Kate.

He does not struggle with how incredibly, decisively easy it would be for him to string her up, flay her alive, and slowly, _so_ slowly, relish in her torture until she inevitably died. He has never hated someone so entirely and vehemently in his life, as he does her.)

All too soon, no matter how expected and prepared it all is, Derek goes into labor, his contractions coming to the tune of a furiously pained grunt, Stiles' hand being mercilessly crushed, and a panicked, "Oh, shit, oh, shit, ohshitohshitohshit," before Stiles can manage to get his head in the game enough to get Derek to the bed in the downstairs guest bedroom that he and Deaton prepared specifically for this, and call the good doctor to scream at him in a high-pitched, cracking, _I don't know what the fuck I'm doing_ voice, even though he very rightly _should_ , after everything, until:

"I take it Derek is going into labor?"

"Yes, _yes_ , and he's breaking my hand, and he's glaring at me, and he's... probably dealing with this ten times better than I am even though he's in the throes of fucking _childbirth_ and—" Derek lets out a growl that tilts into a howl, scathing, like he would rip Stiles' head off if he could, before throwing his head back and choking out a kind of worrying cry. "Jesus, just-just get over here. Now, preferably. Please. Like, now as in _right now_ , as in _right the fuck now."_

"I'm on my way," Deaton tells him, very much amused, and Stiles could kill him for it, the asshole. The phone clicks off the call and he tosses it away uncaringly, huddling closer to the man he loves with a shuddering sigh. The sight of Derek's tears crushes him with this unbearably intense feeling, _if I could do this for you, if I could take this from you, I would_ , because he wants the pups born, but it _hurts_ , in all the deepest parts of him, to see Derek in any kind of pain.

He squeezes Derek's hand in his, presses their foreheads together, and doesn't see the black veins beginning to ride up his arm as the pain in his hand intensifies. Derek seems to sigh, some semblance of relief overtaking him, even as the contraction winds down.

"You'll be okay," Stiles hushes, tightening his fingers around Derek's hand, caressing the man's face, knowing that it's probably likely to only get worse from here, but hanging onto his own reassurance, because if Derek _isn't_... "You'll be okay," he repeats, a prayer, more than anything, "You'll be okay and we'll see them soon, our pups."

Derek lets out a rough, saltwater breath, and grins up at him, stained-glass eyes murky with tears and leftover pain, but also so, so unbearably bright, _happy_ , alive and _hopeful_.

Stiles smiles back, a little wobbly.

"We're going to meet them," he murmurs, nothing less than awed, as Derek leans into his touch with a little hum.

(In a moment, Deaton will come, and raise an eyebrow at Stiles' new apparent ability to leech some of Derek's pain, though he won't at all explain it, and when this is all over Stiles might reflect on what he said- _"our pups"_ \- and how much that truly meant to him in that moment, before he even realized it.

But, for now, they have work to do.)

* * *

Derek opens his eyes to the world after nearly ten months of being... himself, but not, and kind of wants to break.

Memories rush, entirely unapologetic, consume, make his breath hitch and pitch the world into something unknown. He was a wolf, simple and animal, with he, himself, buried deep, deep down—it must've been part of whatever faerie magic that. God.

He was pregnant. He was pregnant, and he found himself a flimsy clearing in the Preserve, close to his... close to what used to be home, far enough away he couldn't smell the ashes, and he claimed that territory, he fucking _nested_. The things of the forest kept away, but not the young man who crept in, asleep, but walking anyway; he'd smelled like fresh, ripe cherries being steadily baked into flaky, golden, buttery pies, like something crisp-tart and thick, wine-syrup sour-sweet. He'd smelled like _Mate_.

And the wolf thought, _oh, is that mine?_

And the wolf thought, _but what about my children._

And the wolf left him. Then he came back, and the wolf couldn't help it, wanted to see, but only a glimpse, and then it left him. Again, almost like a game, almost like they were courting each other, and the wolf didn't know if the young man, if their Mate, would keep his children safe, but there was... _something_. Then their Mate called out, then the wolf scented him, what their scents were like when they _mingled_ , and oh. _Oh._

How long, since his family had died, had he gone feeling _empty?_

How long, since he'd become a shredded, bleeding, aching, _sloppy_ fucking wound that would not heal, angry and depressed in equal turns?

How long, since he could find it within himself to truly, honestly, undaunted, unweighted, _breathe?_

Was this what it was like to be whole again? to be free?

But, still, the wolf left him, because... because Derek was a coward, maybe. Felt unworthy of a Mate, of _pups_ , of everything, with these hands stained in blood-soaked charcoal, with this soul as black as fucking tar, with his sins and his guilt. Or because leaving the nest it'd shallowly, bravely, trepidatiously made seemed a little wrong, somehow. Or because it had to think of the pups, first, and when the _wolf_ had opened its' eyes to the world, a man who smelled like gun-oil, wolfsbane, and cigarette smoke, but also _friend,_ and _loyalty_ , had tried to kill him.

People he trusts so often try to kill him, and the wolf could not die, the wolf could not let their pups die.

Then, one night, their Mate's scent spilled into something overly sour, sweetened in a sick-rot way, and the wolf knew, the realization cutting deep into his soul, that they could not leave him. They could not let him die, either.

And... he can't even put, he can't, Stiles has been—he's at a _loss_. Stiles took in a feral wolf, a _pregnant male wolf_ , deemed him impossible, and then threw himself into research to make sure said wolf could give birth safely and comfortably—he overworked and overstressed himself _constantly_ , he took care of Derek kindly and didn't mind his aggression or his wild. Stiles learned that Derek was a werewolf and ran away, not because he was scared or needed time to adjust (no, if anything, as soon as he found out, he _dived_ into it. Research piled up, the number of times the wolf had to try to drag him to bed increased, the number of times he forgot to eat, recklessly forewent sleep, and he was never afraid, not once. Simply... relentless. Manic and frenetic, too, maybe, a force to be reckoned with, definitely, powerful and fragile all at once), but because he thought Derek, _this_ Derek, might hate him.

_("I was lonely," his Mate whispered, a gallows' rasp, profoundly damaged in undeniable, unanswerable, unknowable ways.)_

Then Chris came, because of course he did, because the widowed hunter was so sure that Derek's pups ( _family, Pack, my babies, my children, I love them, I love them, I must protect them, I won't lose this again, never again_ ) meant the end of the world, or worse. And Stiles, no hesitation, no indecision, unwavering, protected them, would continue to, Derek knew, unconditionally, selflessly, no matter what may happen.

Just as Stiles had held him, comforted, _loved_ , thoughtlessly, easily, constantly.

Warm, endlessly tender sun-soaked mahogany eyes, all graceless limbs and unbridled laughter and a bubbly, neverending kind of affection, mingled with sarcasm, firm and lightly hopeful, all with an edge of hopeless, this small, simple, resigned sadness. His Mate. His One.

 _Stiles_.

He... _how?_ how, after everything he's done... what on earth allowed him to deserve this ridiculously bright, wonderful, complicatedly imperfectly _perfect_ person.

What did he do to deserve a... a _family_ again? That awed wonderment thick and heavy in the back of his throat as he looks breathlessly down at the tiny heartbeat he's _known_ for these past months (and, yes, he won't even deny how viscerally weird it is that the heartbeat is louder, detached, carries its' own scent and weight _outside_ of him); resting, sleeping soundly- the softest thing he has ever touched- on his chest, all swaddled in a cotton blanket, is a little girl. _His_ little girl.

Good gods, his _daughter_.

Beside him, a line of heat and inexorable comfort, Stiles is sitting against the headboard, his hip next to Derek's head, arms cradling his—except, no, that doesn't feel right, does it? not entirely— _their_ other daughter, very awake where her twin is not, cooing and delighting in Stiles playing with her, tickling her belly, then knuckling light pinches at her cheeks before tickling again.

The faces he's making as he does it are as stupidly adorable as the faces and sounds she's making in response, and Derek's heart swells until it's nearly painful, this huge, tacit admiration, besotted adoration, so much and so fast he aches with it.

Stiles notices, then, that he's awake, and offers a crooked, honey-melt, dimpled grin, "Hey," the words come as slow and lilting as a lullaby, settle on his tongue like condensed sweet-milk. "You okay? do you need anything? I've got water, frozen grapes, extra pillows, blankets—" his rambling cuts off abruptly when Derek, well. There's no delicate way to put 'bursts into tears', is there?

His Mate immediately leans toward him, both of their daughters now held closely between them, one of Stiles' hands moving to gentle through Derek's hair as he makes a solicitous-soothe sound in the back of his throat, presses lingering kisses at the tears, at Derek's forehead, "Hush, shh, babe. Don't cry, what's wrong?"

He doesn't know. Nothing. Everything. He's overwhelmed, mostly, but there's something he needs to say, desperately, before the depth of it swallows him whole; a shuddering breath, then, "I love you." Stiles freezes on a sharp inhale, his heartbeat tripping into something even faster than its' resting hummingbird pace, his scent inflating, riper, more saturated, and Derek reaches out, almost frenzied, to clutch at the collar of Stiles' shirt.

"I love you," he repeats, sobs, laughs, and, oh, this is the first time his Mate has ever heard his voice, isn't it? "I love you, Stiles. I love you."

Stiles leans back, searching his face, their daughters, their pups, snuffling and gurgling, all susurrus coos, between them. His Mate looks a little dazed, gaping and close to tears, flushed, _yearning_.

"I love you," Derek breathes again, wet and wobbling but so, so sure, and Stiles swallows, hard, shivers, murmurs a quiet, choked curse before half-lunging forward to kiss him, licking inside without preamble, like he can chase those words, the taste of them, the feel, the weight, the _truth_. Derek claims just as much, dives just as deep, gives himself over if only so he can taste it, too, until their daughters protest at being mildly squished.

Stiles pulls away with an overbright, manic kind of laugh, tears and joy glittering in his eyes like shattered pieces of stale caramel learning how to melt again.

"I love you, too," his Mate sighs, wet and happy with that edge of light hysteria, and Derek smiles, wide and free and so, so human at him.

He'd never doubted it, but, somehow, it feels good to hear it out loud.

* * *

The world hasn't ended.

That's the caption Stiles Stilinski leaves under the selfie he takes of Derek (looking bemused as all hell, but fonder than anything), the twins, and himself. Chris stares at it, and then at the corpse of his little sister, and decides, almost against his better judgment, to give them a call. Stiles turns that call into a promise to visit, and then turns that visit into an apology he didn't think he'd be giving, forgiveness he wasn't sure he'd earned.

The world doesn't end, not when a no longer feral Derek increases his Pack by three, two (Erica and Isaac) who take the Bite, one (Boyd) who doesn't, along with his Mate and his daughters. Chris, intensely wary, moves back to Beacon Hills to keep an eye on them all, Stiles and Erica both proclaim loudly that he does this because he truly loves them and can't bring himself to admit it, Isaac and Boyd roll their eyes, and Derek smirks at the lot of them.

The world doesn't end, not three years later when Bronisława (aka Mo) and Laura (aka Lulu), with their lavender eyes and smoke colored hair and dark olive skin, begin performing stunning, startling magic, all the while naming him (against his will) their uncle. It continues right on turning, past Stiles revealing the supernatural to his flabberghasted father, past the small fight they have for it and their reconciliation, after, past the sheriff finally accepting his role as grandfather, past the same cycle being repeated, maybe a little differently, with Scott.

The world doesn't end when the twins are Allison's flowergirls at her wedding, and Chris is beginning to question everything he's ever done to get himself here. Nor does it end nearly five years later when they both are learning how to, at once, control their shift and their magic simultaneously, because they're the first werewolves in _millennia_ to carry faerie magic in their veins; they're immune to mountain ash and wolfsbane, and so many things about that terrify him, but, still, he finds himself with Deaton and a stoic Derek, a frenetically hyper Stiles, helping the girls through their first full moon.

The world doesn't end as the Nemeton is blessed and regrown and stands, once again, a tall, proud, exceedingly powerful, terribly ancient tree. Supernaturals come from all over the world, some to take advantage, only to quickly find a very, very powerful Pack standing in their way, some to find a haven, a home, a place where they can breathe _free_.

The world doesn't end when Mo falls in love with a person named Sky, a druid far more powerful than Deaton, but a little less than Stiles, who'd come into his own with his Spark over the years; it doesn't end when Lulu comes out, worrying at her fingertips, as asexual, and is easily, openly, comfortingly accepted. Lulu is Mo's best woman at her wedding, and Derek and Stiles, both, walk her down the aisle. When the traditional father-daughter dance comes around, Stiles and Mo- who had very much taken after him when it came to dancing and what she wanted to do with her life- very impressively and uproariously decide to show _everyone_ what dancing's _supposed_ to look like, and the world comes out of it perfectly fine.

Stiles never, ever stops lauding it over him.

Lulu and Mo don't, either, for that matter.

"I'm gonna be on my deathbed," he mutters to Derek one day, aggrieved, "and they're still gonna be telling me that."

Derek laughs, looking happier than he'd ever been in the four years they were hunting down his sister, and says, utterly unrepentant, "Well. It is true, isn't it?"

Then he's caught up by his Mate, his Pack, his daughters, stolen away with sparkling eyes and a smile that... doesn't ache. A happiness Chris has known the man deserved for a long, long time. A happiness Chris had almost taken from him, with _reason_ , but... not a good enough reason.

"Yeah," he sighs, as everything seems to click into place. "Yeah, it is."

The twins, their fathers, and their Pack live, hale and healthy and happy, and the world... doesn't end.

And that's kind of the best happy ending anyone could ask for, isn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed this fic! Happy bday, again, Kat! I love you all!!!!!!


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